


Due Date

by morstan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childbirth, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morstan/pseuds/morstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary needs hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Due Date

The arrival of John’s text was met with sterile apathy.  
Sherlock continued his staring match with the ceiling, even as the buzzes from his mobile grew in frequency. Even when the sleek device began to ring, sending an incessant trill reverberating throughout Baker Street, Sherlock remained stoic. His lidded eyes were engaged, but unseeing. His ebony, curly hair clung to his face with sweat, providing a stark contrast to the ivory of his skin. He was still clothed in pajamas from four nights previously; a time otherwise noted as his last meeting with John Watson.  
In fact, Sherlock had hardly even moved since then. Mrs. Hudson was off on holiday, so her doting, hovering presence had yet to get on Sherlock’s nerves. The cup of tea, perched in its rattling saucer on the spindly little thing that hardly qualified as a table, had grown cold hours after being left at Sherlock’s side all those days previously. Though familiar, the drink provided little amelioration to the deathly, dispassionate impassivity on which Sherlock had been functioning as of late.  
For a few more moments, Sherlock lay there. The only indication of his life being the slow rise and fall of his lanky chest, it came as a surprise, perhaps, when he suddenly swung his legs from the sofa and sat straight. His hand, fingers long and lean and that of a skilled violinist, flittered towards the cell phone on the desk before him and slowly, as it rung again, he put the thing to his ear and listened to the voice of the man, who, on any other occasion, might have been pleased to refer to Sherlock Holmes as his best friend.  
Now, however, was a completely different story.  
“Sherlock Holmes.” Watson’s voice, though as deathly silent as that of a mourner’s in church, shook with rage concealed only with the precision of a practiced vocal box. “You complete bastard.”  
“Sorry?” Sherlock said, straightening considerably as though John’s voice brought to life the marionette strings tied to the collar of Sherlock’s silken robe.  
He wasn’t particularly roused, though. John’s recent worrying had already led him to the conclusion drawn only moments before, when the irate voice of his latest companion rang through the small device pressed to Sherlock’s ear. It was obvious, at least to our dear consulting detective (from which position he may have recently defected, a little). The nerves, the recent calls to Bart’s (not that Molly would be of any help; she dealt with the dead ones, not the unborn), the little toys John kept packed at each of his haunts throughout London.  
Bearing his reasoning in mind, Sherlock began to pace as John’s fury dominated the line. Sherlock was, in part, blocking John out because if he was being frank, the only thing it brought to mind was John in his military days and this was not the time for Sherlock to be thinking of such things.  
“…the one time I need you most and you won’t answer your fucking phone!”  
“Ah. Yes.”  
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” Sherlock, despite his incompetence in various other categories concerning emotion, was able to detect the vexation that had caused the line to fall silent. “Sherlock Holmes—“  
“Yes, we’ve gathered that you know my name. There are more pressing matters, John, like the fact that your wife needs hospital and you’re on the phone with me, a man if, I am being honest with myself, has very little expertise in the area of medicine. You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”  
John was silent for a moment. When he did speak again, his voice was brittle. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I am,” John answered at last. “But I’m not a bloody baby-delivering one!”  
“For God’s sake, just get her to hospital! I’ll be there—I’ll…just—“  
The phone fell, off and forgotten, onto the seat which had, minutes before, been occupied by Sherlock’s immobile body. Now, that very same body was up and flitting about the flat, combing the bedroom for something decent, and then the rest of the place for anything he might need. It was a little bit out of character, Sherlock’s behavior, on that I am sure we can all agree, but the concept of babies (and, of course, his best friend’s wife carrying one in her stomach) was entirely new to Sherlock and it wasn’t a notion he was willing to indulge John with over the phone.  
When he was finally bundled beneath the trademark woolen trench coat and thick navy scarf (knotted around his neck with painstaking continuity), Sherlock tucked a small, haphazardly-wrapped parcel into the inner pocket of his coat and was on his way.  
The brisk London weather was no laughing matter. Even through the leather of his gloves, the wind still seeped beneath Sherlock’s skin and sent an icy chill throughout his body, dispatching a convulsing shiver throughout his spindly frame. It wouldn’t have taken much more than was coming in from the east to knock over the hollow shell of a man we refer to as Sherlock Holmes, so it was with great relief that a taxi finally pulled up to the curb of Baker Street and our precious protagonist was able to seek shelter from London’s greatest menace.  
“Barts,” was the address pulled carelessly from Sherlock’s thin lips as the taxi driver sent him a curious, probing stare through the rearview mirror. Sherlock was a mystery to the best detective, and that was a fact widely known throughout the greater part of the civilized world, so most didn’t waste too long trying to dissect the emotions (or lack thereof) with which Sherlock was concerned. Instead, the cabbie obliged and was soon speeding through downtown London, not, altogether, too nonplussed by the urgency with which Sherlock dictated himself.  
“Girlfriend in hospital?” the driver wagered as the cab wheezed to a halt at a stoplight.  
Sherlock denied the suggestion with a wheedling noise as the light changed colors and the drive resumed again. His fingers were drumming against his thighs and unconsciously, his free hand drifted to the parcel concealed beneath his coat. He could only hope that the Watsons would appreciate it - and that little Elizabeth, as she had been tentatively named, would as well.  
“Mm. Mum, then? Sister, maybe? Daughter? C'mon, mate, give a chap a clue.”  
Sherlock paused long enough before exiting the cab to throw a pair of rumpled bank notes and the careless notion of, "A friend's wife."  
The answer - or perhaps it was the over-calculated sum that has been tossed onto his lap by Sherlock's bumbling digits - seemed to amply satiate the cabbie, for his dingy vehicle soon sped off without another backward glance, leaving Sherlock at the mercy of the London chill and before a building that brought back a slew of conflicting memories.  
Nearly three years ago, he had stood at the top of the hospital and pulled off what may have been his best feat to date. It hadn't been met with the brightest reception from anyone, least of all John, but he had done it to protect them and that was what counted. It had taken positively ages for him to come around (especially since he'd settled down with Mary by then and tidied up his act a fair amount), much longer than Sherlock had even dared to hope for, but things were soon resolved a fair enough amount between them and life resumed at Baker Street - though without the presence of our mustachioed friend John Watson.  
Brushing the painful memories from his shoulders with the air of one afflicted with a deadly face muscle twitch, Sherlock strode into the building. He used to work there, in the morgue, with Molly. Thankfully, today's endeavor would bring him to a considerably more cheerful wing of the hospital (or so Sherlock rather hoped; it was his premonition that the matters of childbirth and postmortem were quite the opposite, but he wasn't in the mood for any more surprises. He assumed that John was under a similar impression).  
When Sherlock finally made it to the ward, it was to find John already outside, pacing anxiously and shooting glares towards the small, wooden door that separated him from his wife and daughter. The retired army doctor looked up, briefly, upon hearing the footfalls of his ex-comrade, and then resumed his aggrieved movements, back and forth, along the hallway.  
“The doctor told me to leave,” was the explanation John offered moments later, answering the question laying somewhat vaguely upon Sherlock’s chiseled features. “Told me I was putting her off. Couldn’t even hold her hand when—when it happens.”  
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock replied with a twist of his features, “she’s having a baby not being euthanized. It’s not the end of the world, John.”  
The stare towards which John then directed at Sherlock was indescribably venomous, so it was understandable that Sherlock (who at this point was growing fairly irritable with John and his antics; for, as he had previously voiced, Mary was only in labor, not dying) eased off the snark a bit. The duo stood there, then, for a few more minutes.  
In terms of the room behind them, the walls and windows (over which blinds had been drawn and shut) were completely noise-canceling. Nothing from the interior of the room - neither Mary, nor the encouragement of the doctors, nor the whirr of machines on standby - could be heard from the vantage point of the two men outside, and for that, they both might have been lucky. While it is not quite time to divulge the goings on where Mary was concerned, one might be able to gather that John would not be entirely too pleased with the results.  
“Elizabeth, then,” Sherlock said suddenly. “Elizabeth what?”  
“Elizabeth Harriet.” The reply was short, and concise, and brief, underlined with an air of finality. It was clear that the subject was not to be broached again, but being the person that he was, Sherlock could simply not resist the urge to tempt John a little bit further.  
“I know I may not be the best friend, John, but know that I promised to be here for you and Mary, always. And whatever that means - whether it’s taking care of little Elizabeth Harriet—“ the way John’s back stiffened at the mention of his unborn daughter’s second name was enough to satiate Sherlock, but the desire to goad his friend just a tiny bit farther lingered in the back of his mind and he couldn’t suppress it “—or whatever you need. I can only hope, though, that she will find me not half as annoying as you do.”  
The reaction that Sherlock had elicited wasn’t quite what he had been expecting. It wasn’t the next heartfelt declaration of love, but it was certainly a step towards the emotional end of the spectrum (if not in the right direction, it was certainly an improvement from the flying fist that Sherlock had been expecting).  
“Jesus, Sherlock! My wife’s in labor four bloody weeks early and you’re worrying about whether my daughter’s going to like you or not. That’s rich, you know, real bloody rich.”  
Sherlock’s face softened a fraction of a measure. “John, I—“  
He was interrupted, however, as the door behind him was flung open with the rushed intent of a white-faced doctor. The man stood to block the scene inside the room, but from the marginal silence that greeted the trio in the hall, both John and Sherlock were aware that something was amiss.  
“Mr. Watson.” The doctor addressed John. ‘You’d better come and see.”  
John was ushered into the room, and the door was shut before Sherlock could even uproot himself. Alone, then, in the abysmal white hallway, we leave our consulting detective for quite some time. His best friend needs time to mourn and the words that have fallen, unspoken, onto the worn floor of the ward are long forgotten. While John laments the loss of his wife, Sherlock is grieving the loss of a chance to divulge his feelings.  
It is with a heavy heart that Sherlock removes the parcel from the interior of his jacket and rests it on the window sill beside the hospital room. And then, with his coat billowing behind him and a stride as long and brisk as ever, our main character flees the scene.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry that sucked an awful lot at the end but I felt a bit rushed. At any rate, please leave your thoughts or a kudos or whatever you like! :)


End file.
